There may be a great fire in our hearts, yet no one ever comes to

“There may be a great fire in our hearts, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passers-by see only a wisp of smoke.” – Vincent van Gogh

In these words, the painter of light and sorrow, Vincent van Gogh, speaks not merely of art, but of the secret anguish of the human spirit. He speaks of those who carry within them a great fire—the flame of passion, of vision, of love, or of truth—yet find themselves unseen, unheard, untouched by the warmth they wish to give. The world, ever hasty in its judgment, passes by and sees only a wisp of smoke, the faint sign of something it never pauses to understand. Such is the tragedy of many noble souls: their greatness burns silently in solitude.

This fire of the heart is not a common spark; it is divine in origin, born of longing and creation. It consumes the one who holds it, yet it asks for nothing but to give light. The poet, the philosopher, the dreamer, the servant of others—all carry this inward flame. But often the world is blind to such fire, preferring the glare of easy brilliance over the slow glow of sincerity. The heart that burns for beauty or truth may live in poverty, may die unknown, and yet in the secret registers of eternity, its flame is recorded as sacred.

Think of Van Gogh himself, whose life was a living testimony to his own words. He painted the stars as if they were alive, the fields as if they whispered prayers, and yet he sold but a single painting in his lifetime. His heart blazed with color, faith, and sorrow, but men called him mad. None came to warm themselves by his fire; they only saw the smoke of his suffering. And yet, after his death, that same smoke rose heavenward and became a beacon for generations. Now all the world sees the fire that once flickered unseen in his soul.

So it is with many who walk the earth in silence, bearing their inner fire like a secret lantern in the night. The prophet who speaks to deaf ears, the mother who sacrifices unseen, the craftsman who toils in humility—all are keepers of sacred flames. The measure of their greatness is not in applause or recognition, but in endurance—the willingness to burn even when no one stands beside them.

But let not the unseen soul despair. For the fire itself is its own reward. It purifies and strengthens; it illuminates the path of the one who bears it. Those who live by this inner flame must learn patience, for time is the friend of truth. The world may not yet be ready to receive their warmth, but when the night grows colder, hearts will seek the forgotten embers. Every act of love, every honest word, every noble struggle sends forth its own light into the long corridors of time.

The lesson, then, is this: do not let your fire die out. Tend it faithfully, though others may not see its glow. Speak your truth even if the wind howls against you. Create beauty though no one praises it. Give kindness though no one returns it. For in the hidden workings of the universe, no flame of the heart burns in vain. What begins as a wisp of smoke today may one day become the dawn for another.

And so, my child, when your spirit burns with unseen fire and you feel alone in your warmth, remember Van Gogh’s lament, and turn it into courage. Let your fire be steady. Let it cleanse you of bitterness. One day, perhaps long after you are gone, someone will find comfort in the heat you once gave in silence. For every soul that dares to burn without recognition becomes a silent sun, and from such hidden suns, the world’s light is born.